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A collection of previously published short fiction with Baha'i related themes from Juxta Publishing.
Juxta Media
The stories in this collection, previously published in such magazines as Analog Science Fiction, Interzone, Realms of Fantasy, Century, Jim Baen's Universe, Helix and Paradox.
Each story was inspired in some way by the Baha'i Faith.
Excerpt
Loucette Doucette rocked gently back and forth on the park bench, eyes on nothing in particular. The sun felt warm on her face despite the near freezing temperature, but then her face was the only part of her body not swaddled in layers of warm flannel and wool.
She was indulging in her favorite pass-time just now—‘membering. She was very good at it — excelled at pulling faded bits of sepia-tone out of dark hiding and colorizing them. No high-tech movie magic could do what Loucette Doucette's memory could do.
God, it was all there today, too. New Orleans greens and blues, hot white-washed walls, cool shadows, bright smiles in chocolate faces. And over all the sun whispering a warm, loving benediction.
Her full lips curved as the smells began to emerge. New Orleans smells—hot, spicy, sizzling smells; dark red smells in her Daddy's restaurant. And she sat on the stairs that led up to their flat, rocking back and forth to New Orleans sounds, eyes on nothing in particular, with that knowing smile her Daddy said'd get her in trouble some day.
It'd done that.
She stopped 'membering and got up, hungry, longing for Creole food. They didn't know Creole cookin' at the Mission. Not like she did. Maybe Nancy'd let her putter in the kitchen today. She liked that.
Behind her shopping cart, headed across park, she started 'membering again. Old, flat, crepe-soled sturdies grew sleek and high-heeled. Her steps tapped with the rhythmic authority of youth, hips swayed.
This time the memories carried her for three blocks—all the way to the front door of the Mission. She swept in like she owned the place, feeling that powerful flush of warmth that only came when many pairs of eyes were on you. Then many pairs of lips would whisper your name—"Loucette Doucette."
"Lucy-Ducy! How you doin', hon?"
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